Autumn is a Second Spring
by rewritetheending
Summary: "'I'm not going home. Not until you tell me why you're so pissed.' He pauses, tilting his head as he studies her. 'Actually, no. Not until you tell me why you're hurt. Because that's what this is, right? You're hurt.'" Castle confronts Beckett after his return to the precinct in 3x01.


"_Castle! Go home. Go back to your Hamptons, your ex-wife, your book parties. Okay? I've got work to do."_

* * *

"No, it's not okay."

Beckett spins around, eyes wide at the realization that he's right behind her. "What's not okay?"

"I'm not going home. Not until you tell me why you're so pissed." He pauses, tilting his head as he studies her. "Actually, no. Not until you tell me why you're hurt. Because that's what this is, right? You're hurt."

"What's the problem, Castle? Can't come up with the story on your own? You always have before."

The truth of that stings more than it should, but he wishes he could solve this mystery without having to pry the answers from her. "I've got nothing. Please just tell me what happened."

"I won't do this here."

He takes a step closer, effectively pinning her against the wall, just around the corner from where her team waits. "Then where?" There's no response, just the shake of her head and the surprising threat of tears shimmering in a pool of hazel. He leans forward another few inches, pretending to ignore the shiver that gives her away. "Fine. I'll be at your place at 8:00. We'll talk then."

* * *

There's the possibility that she won't be home. Or that she'll simply ignore his arrival. Either way, he gave her an out by announcing his plan to show up, so when she swings the door open with an indignant stare, he counts it as a win. She can yell all she wants, but she's obviously willing to have this conversation. It's in line with what he expected when he walked away from her at the precinct, all her glaring a bit too forced, all her accusations a bit too wanting.

She steps aside wordlessly and he weighs his options; he can keep them near the door, where she holds very little territorial advantage, or he can move them into the heart of her living space, where his observational skills may give him an unexpected edge, even if she has the comfort of being in her own home. He assesses the apartment with a talent that has only improved during his time with her and spots the bookshelf immediately.

It makes him brave.

He takes his chance.

Striding past her, he makes his way across the room and hears her nearly choke on his name when she figures out where he's going. That only confirms it. She's vulnerable and he's an asshole for exploiting it, but he wants honest answers. Reaching her collection of books, he casually runs his fingertip over the spines of his own novels.

"Don't-"

"Don't what, Beckett? Don't commend you on your taste in literature? Don't offer to read you a bedtime story? Don't tell you how glad I am that you had my books to keep you company whenever your relationship with Detective Demming came to an end?"

"Fuck you." It's practically hissed in his ear; she's close now and the heat of her rage is coming off her in waves, weakened only by something he hasn't quite figured out.

He takes the opportunity to grab her, broad hands easily bracketing her waist and spinning her around. The force with which she slams into the shelves startles her, so he lets his fingers slide beneath her blouse and attempts to soothe her with the slightest pressure against her skin. It's risky, but he's shadowed her long enough to know her tells; even with a summer apart, he's certain he'll get away with touching her in a way he's never dared before. "Ah, there's the anger again. Why? What did I do to hurt you so much? Everything was fine when I left for the Hamptons, so what changed? Did you get lonely without me?"

His last line was a joke, but her blown pupils give it a serious edge; she's become feral, looking for an escape that he's not ready to grant. And if the way her foot has just hooked around his ankle is any indication, she's not convinced she wants a way out of this, even if she finds it.

"It doesn't matter, Castle."

Leaning forward to nip at her earlobe, he rasps against her neck. "The hell it doesn't."

"You've got Gina." She flips them, and he hits the bookshelves just as her teeth tear into his shoulder, an unyielding punctuation mark at the end of her sentence.

"I don't. I lied."

"You lied? In an interrogation?"

He can't help the laugh that breaks free, rough with an arousal that's building quickly while her body is pressed so tightly against his. "That's your takeaway here?"

When she pulls away, she won't meet his eyes, staring at his books over his shoulder instead and taking far too long to respond. "No Gina?"

"No Gina." He still doesn't understand why she's been so upset and he can't let go of it. "Tell me what happened? What did I do? We had a nice moment in the precinct before I left, didn't we?"

She flattens her palms against his chest and pushes off him, storming toward her couch before turning to face him with a look that has made criminals cower. "Yes, we had a nice moment before you left. Before you _left_, Castle. Then you walked away from me with your ex-wife on your arm and I didn't hear from you all summer."

"Why did that matter so much? What was I supposed to do? I invited you to go with me, but you said no. How am I the bad guy here?" He scrubs his hands over his face, trying to keep his voice even. Then, taking a deep breath, he steps toward her, willing to drop the pretense if it will get her to do the same. "I couldn't handle the front row seat to your budding relationship with Demming. So, yes, I left. I even took my ex-wife, with the hope that I could enjoy another woman's company when all I wanted was yours."

They're close again, and somehow his hands have found their way beneath her blouse one more time, just barely skimming the soft skin above the waistband of her pants. He stares her down, waiting to see if she'll try to run or whether she can stumble upon a few seconds of honesty.

"I wanted yours, too."

So it's the latter, and he's not sure he's caught up. "You wanted my company? At the precinct? Like I said, I couldn't do it anymore. I couldn't watch you be with another man."

"I broke up with that man to be with you." Her hands come up to cover his, but it doesn't soften the blow. He's speechless and angry and disappointed, but grateful when she continues. "Well, maybe not to _be_ with you. I mean, I didn't know what would happen, but I wanted to find out. I broke up with Tom and I pulled you into the hallway so that I could tell you yes. I wanted to go to the Hamptons with you for the weekend, to figure out whatever the hell this thing _is_ between us. But I was too late and it was the one time you didn't push for the whole story. The one time you couldn't see right through me. Instead you left and I was so mad at myself, but now you're back and acting like nothing happened and I want to be mad at _you_."

She's becoming louder and more upset as she continues to explain, but he gets it now and there's no need for any more words. He slips his hands out from beneath hers, missing the contact for only a moment before his fingers comb through her hair and he tilts her head up for a kiss. It's not the romantic one he'd written, nor the passionate one he'd imagined on too many nights alone; this kiss is war. He's merely a witness as fury battles joy, as regret fights hope, and he waits with no patience whatsoever to find out who the winner will be.

They might both be casualties by the end of the night, but in the meantime, he will drive the memories of the past four months from her overwrought mind. She deserves to forget the pain he hadn't known he was inflicting, and he's just pissed enough about their terrible communication skills to make his point with almost no talking at all. He bites down on her lip and draws a moan from deep in her chest; he feels it knock unexpectedly at his ribcage and then he hurries to swallow it whole. Suddenly, she rises up on her tiptoes and clutches at his back, an attempt to take the lead she always assumes in their unorthodox partnership, but he wrests it away with the same smirk he employs whenever he willfully disobeys.

"No way, Beckett. You had your chance to take control in May."

The strange dance they've been doing in her living room continues when he whirls her around one more time, bringing her ass flush against his straining erection once she's facing her couch. He slides his hands around her waist and finds the button on her pants with no trouble at all. It pops free, her zipper lowered immediately afterward, giving her enough room to shimmy free of the material and heightening his arousal as she rubs against him in the process. Then he hooks his thumbs into the sides of her thong and tugs it over her hips until it can fall to the floor. He wastes no time – they've both done enough of that – and drags two fingers through the wetness that awaits him.

Fuck, she's slick and warm and arching forward into his hand for more. His other arm slips underneath her blouse until he can roughly palm her breast, making sure the fabric of her bra is teasing her nipple into a tight and needy peak, but he keeps his lower hand moving just as surely. He's good at this and he is more than confident and the curses made under her breath only confirm it, so he reaches further until his fingertips tease at her opening and make her gasp. The angle isn't ideal and he can't thrust as deeply as he might like to, but it matters little when the way she's grinding against the heel of his hand is going to get her off; he'd normally pull back and work her clit until her knees buckle, but she's doing just fine rocking into the pressure she needs.

When she does break, he feels the hint of it against his fingers, her muscles tapping out an unfamiliar rhythm as they contract. He holds her upright with the arm still stretched across her torso and keeps his hand in place while she slows her hips, eager for the taste of her that's been left on his skin; he satisfies that craving as soon as her breathing is close to normal again. Then she turns her head just enough for him to see that her mouth is open and waiting, so he pushes his fingers past her lips and watches as she takes whatever he's left behind.

He's not even undressed yet and he knows he's never going to survive this.

It makes him crazy, her unabashed wantonness, and he shoves her forward until she's kneeling on the couch, her ankles trapped by the clothes still wrapped around them. Her top half is still covered, but he's unconcerned, willing to take the time to properly learn her body once they manage to make it to an actual bed. For now, it's all he can do to fumble his way past his belt, button, and zipper until he feels the warm weight of his cock against his palm, the instinctive motion of his hand acting as an unbearable tease when he's already so hard, so desperately ready for her.

She looks over her shoulder, just as impatient as he is, so he steadies himself by grabbing her waist, then he drags his fingertips between her legs once more before he is buried deep inside her, one rough thrust bringing him home. He doesn't give either of them a chance to savor the sensation, leaving her empty again almost immediately and setting aside his own disappointment for the chance to hear her ask for more; she ran out of time in the spring, but he's willing to wait her out now.

What falls from her lips is mostly an incoherent cry of his name, but it's enough for him. He drives forward again, filling her up and finding the welcome clench of her muscles around him, relieved at how much every part of her seems to want him, but still fighting so many conflicting emotions. There's the ongoing frustration about how much time they lost, tempered only by the comfort that comes with knowing a few months will be nothing compared to the potential years ahead of them. He's angry about their inability to assert themselves in the face of doubt; he takes the bulk of the blame for deferring to Demming, long before she let him walk away with Gina. He's hopeful that the spark of something unnamed that has settled in his chest seems to be simmering within her, too.

It results in chaos, too much anger and guilt and need colliding as he punishes both of them, and he knows she feels it when he sees her hands curled over the back of the couch, knuckles white, wrists locked. She's doing her best to meet him halfway, her perfect ass rocking backward as she tries to take him deeper, but he maintains his edge by wrapping up a fistful of her hair and pulling until her back arches. They're volatile together, acutely animalistic, and perhaps it's been inevitable from the moment they met. He's finding it difficult to regret any of it among the filthy slap of skin, her obvious wetness, and the gorgeous way she keeps saying _fuck_ with any breath she can spare.

There's no way he can last much longer, but he needs her to come again. Releasing his grip on her hair, he uses that hand to reach for her clit, the other still bruising on her hip. His lust is inexorably heightened when she covers his hand with hers to guide him, slippery fingertips occasionally brushing against the spot where they're intimately joined as they work furiously for her orgasm. She's bucking wildly and he holds on until her entire body tightens at once, but when he feels the contractions silently begging him to follow her, he doesn't resist the temptation. He pumps into her with no finesse at all, spilling with a few final thrusts and doing his best to remain upright.

When he slips free from her, she falls to the couch, twisting with a breathless laugh until she's sprawled on her back, her pants and underwear still dangling from her ankles. He looks down with a joy that he can't remember feeling in too long and helps pull the clothing off her completely before scooping her legs out of the way, settling next to her on the couch, and repositioning her across his lap. He draws lazy patterns over her shin and around her kneecap, finally making his way to where her hand rests on her naked thigh, threading their fingers together. She wiggles in the most adorably sexy way and breaks the post-coital silence.

"We need to work on using our words."

"During sex? That's a naughty little idea, Detective, but I'm totally on board with it."

She rolls her eyes, and he's grateful that their unexpected debauchery hasn't diminished her attitude any. "I meant when we want to express more serious feelings…especially about each other. This could have ended horribly for us."

"Agreed." He uses their entwined hands to pull her up until she's close enough to kiss, then mumbles against her lips. "But for now, can we move into your bedroom and try it the first way?"

Only an hour later, he finds himself delighted, but not at all surprised, by her extensive vocabulary.

* * *

A/N: The title of this fic was humbly borrowed from the Albert Camus quote, "Autumn is a second spring when every leaf is a flower."


End file.
